West moves in, gets Blake's arm behind him, leverages his weight. Blake goes down, face pressed to the path, wheezing.
"That," he says quietly, blood dripping from his chin, "was a mistake, my friend."
"Not the face!" Blake chokes out, while holding his hands up, blocking the punches he thinks are coming. "Wedding photos—please—not the face—"
"Then stop talking," West says, voice flat.
He releases Blake.
Blake stays down, panting, trying to save face even while gasping for air. "Whatever—crazy bitch isn't worth—"
West takes one step forward.
Blake scrambles backward on his hands, eyes wide. "I'm done! I'm done!"
He staggers to his feet, stumbles away into the darkness, muttering.
West turns to me, blood still streaming from his nose.
"You okay?" His first words.
Not about Blake. Not about his face. About me.
And that's when I realize.
I’m catching feelings.
Real, dangerous, countdown-defying feelings.
Shit.
"I'm fine," I manage, my voice shakier than I'd like.
"You're the one bleeding," I say stupidly.
"I've had worse."
"I elbowed you in the face."
"You were trying to help."
"I made it worse."
West's mouth twitches. "A little."
And despite everything—the adrenaline, the fear, the chaos—I start laughing.
It's the kind of laughter that borders on hysteria, the kind that bubbles up when your brain can't process what just happened.
West just watches me, one hand still pressed to his nose, and I see the corner of his mouth lift.
"Come on," he says finally. "Let's get out of here before someone sees me andcalls resort security."
He reaches for my wrist—the one Blake grabbed—his touch careful. "Let's get you somewhere safe."
And I let him lead me back, pulse racing, knowing I'm in trouble.
The kind of trouble fifty thousand dollars won't fix.
